Freedom
by WoWriter
Summary: The short story of a troubled Youth. Some mature themes. NOT a happy story. Be warned. I suck at summaries, just read it, its a one-shot.


I felt like writing something, and was in a bit of a dark mood, so I wrote this story. Be warned, while there is nothing explicit, there are some mature themes. Also, it is not a happy story. At all.

That said, I hope you all enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I do not own WoW or anything remotely associated with it.

***

I am five years old.

My mother and I are sitting across the table from one another in the foyer of our home in Lordaeron, pairs of cards lined up in front of each of us, each with a hand clutched close. I make my move.

"Do you have any..." I pause for dramatic effect, and then utter the last word, although not quite pronouncing it correctly, "T'rees?"

She smiles. It's a smile I don't see very often, and I cherish my moments with it. Her expression in that moment is completely at peace, warm, and carefree.

"Go fish."

Nearly two hours, and many games, later, we stop. She says it is time for dinner, that we need to keep my strength up. I smile, but only half way.

"How do you ALWAYS win, mommy?"

A glint lights her gaze, similar to when she "dishes" about her coworkers to her friends. Kneeling down in front of me, my mother lowers her voice to a conspirators whisper.

She explains, and shows, how to surreptitiously choose a new hand out of the deck when your opponent is in the kitchen refilling their glass of milk, and platter of cookies.

I gape at her, stunned.

"You CHEATED!" with an accusatory index finger leveled at her, I proclaim it.

However, she only hugs me close and chuckles.

"You can cheat, baby. You just can't get caught."

We giggle guiltily and somewhat nervously together.

From then on, our games are much more entertaining, even if no one ever gets up for a seconds again.

***

I am seven years old.

I place my hand down in front of my father, although I do raise it again swiftly.

"Straight Flush!"

He shakes his head, his deep chuckle reverberating around me. I love that laugh so much. Its sound alone makes me feel safer.

My father always makes me feel safe. He is always calm and usually smiling. He never gets angry like mom, never yells or slaps me.

Later, we are both grinning, him somewhat abashedly, as we put the cards away.

"Can't even beat my own daughter," he intones melodramatically.

"Well..." I give a sly smile as I lean over, "We would have been even, had you looked closer at my "straight flush". The jack was spades, not clubs."

I am proud of this deceit, and expect him to congratulate me as my mother does when I reveal such things.

He does not. Instead I see his brows contract in an expression I have never before seen upon his features. His voice booms out as he swiftly stands, towering over my small form.

"You cheated!?! And now you speak of it shamelessly! I had thought I had raised you better than that!"

I cower, terrified and shocked, but mostly confused. The worst is yet to come, as his voice become quiet and his face so very sad.

"I am so very disappointed."

With that statement, the finality ringing through it, he strides out the front door.

I blink, and then slowly curl up on the floor where we were playing and sob.

My brother finds me like that. Only nine years old himself, he still manages to explain to me in terms I understand. He tells me how "mommy and daddy", even though I don't actually call them that anymore, don't always think the same way.

I calm down.

Later in the evening, father finds me and apologizes for his outburst. He holds me close and says he never wants there to be dishonesty between us. He loves me to much for that, he states.

From then on, I never tell anybody at the end of games about how I cheated them. Not even my mother.

***

I am nine years old.

My mother and I are leaving the marketplace together. We get into the carriage. The horses begin to canter.

I'm bursting with pride and, against my better judgment; I decide to tell my mother.

"I saved you some gold mom."

"What's that, sweetheart?"

"I hid more plums under the meats. You only paid for half as many as we actually got!"

I was giddy with excitement at finally revealing one of my triumphs. I was practically glowing as I waited for her praise.

It did not come.

She looked at me with shock, and gasped out:

"You stole from the vendor? Cheryle that is NOT okay! That's illegal and wrong!"

My voice is timid as I reply. I know I would do better to keep quiet, but I cannot. I feel too wronged. Too tricked.

"You can cheat. You just can't get caught."

She smacks me. I knew she would, but it still stings and brings tears to my eye. My chin quivers, more from the rejection than the pain.

"That's only in stupid fucking games we play in the house, girl! It doesn't work that way in the real world!"

The rest of the trip home is spent in silent brooding on both of our parts.

I notice that she does not turn the carriage around to return the stolen fruit.

When we get back to the house, father is there. Mother tells him what I did, and they begin to argue. They do that allot these days.

As their voices get louder, and I continue to watch from around the corner of the door, my brother joins me. He says nothing, just places an arm around my shoulders.

Eventually their shouts reach a crescendo. My father says he is done. He walks out the front door.

He doesn't walk back through that door for four years.

***

I am ten years old.

My cousin Achlys is on top of me, pinning me to the bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms of our grandparents' mansion. Her hands are twisted around my throat, her teeth are bared. She is older than I; she weighs more and is stronger.

Blackness begins to seep in around the edges of my vision. It feels as though my lungs are on fire.

Finally, one of my wild kicks connects. She sails off the end of the bed.

I scramble off the side, and stumble through the doorway. I sprint down the stairwell, sobbing even as I desperately gasp in air. I find my grandmother sitting upon the sofa. She is doing her needlework.

I clamber into her lap still sobbing. I try to explain what happened. I want her to protect me.

I imagine so many responses from her. All of the possible responses, in fact.

All but the one she gives.

"I'm sure she didn't mean it."

Later that night, my brother comes back from spending time with his friends.

I don't want to tell him what happened, but he perceives that there is something amiss and weasels it out of me.

When I finally explain, it is frightening how similar his expression is to my father's that day I admitted to cheating. He tells me to stay there, and to get my things together. He says we are leaving. Then he walks into the next room.

My hands tremble as I place my belongings inside my pack. I hear my brother's enraged yells, and my grandparents' feeble replies, through the walls.

We go back to my mother's home in the middle of the night. She is not there, but out. That is why we were at our grandparents' in the first place. However, we will never again return there.

Not even for their funeral service a year later.

***

I am eleven years old.

I watch from the end of the alleyway as two boys hold Achlys down.

She screams.

I watch as a third boy begins to undo the ties to her skirt.

She calls for help.

I watch as the third boy removes her skirt, then his own britches swiftly thereafter.

She sees me, and calls for help again.

I shake my head, just once. Then I walk away.

I never tell anyone.

A year later, she hangs herself.

***

I am thirteen years old.

My father stands in my mother's house for the first time in four years. He and my brother kneel by the foot of my mother's bed. I stand in the far corner of the room.

The priest finally stands.

"I'm sorry, but she's gone."

They break down into sobs as the priest walks out. I embrace them both, my face stoic, and try to lend them my strength.

Eventually I leave. I walk calmly out the room. I stride calmly through the house. I step serenely down the cobbled street and around the corner.

I check to make sure no one is following me. I check to make sure no one can see me.

I shove my fist into my mouth and give a muffled scream as the tears stream down my face.

Several minutes later, I dry my face with the hem of my skirt and head home. My brother asks if I'm all right. He inquires as to if I have been crying. All my life he has been strong for me, now it is my turn to be strong for him; so I respond in an even voice with a slight smirk.

"No. Of course not."

He recoils ever so slightly and stares at me. His expression is unfathomable.

A week later he leaves to be apprenticed to a paladin of the Silver Hand. I never speak to him again.

***

I am fourteen years old.

I sit cross legged on my bed in my room. It is nighttime, but I have no candles lit. I arrange my hands into the meditative gestures I had learned. I take a deep, steadying breath and hold it for several seconds before exhaling. I intone my chants.

"Passion is inferior."

"My emotions belong to me, not I to them."

"Passion is inferior."

I pick up a glass sculpture from my desktop and hurl it against the wall where it shatters, breathing heavily.

***

I am sixteen years old.

I hate my father. I do not know why, for he always treats me with respect and compassion. He always provides everything I need, and gives me everything I want.

Yet I never return his heart felt "I love you"s anymore. I never buy him gifts on his birthday, or any other holiday, even though he does so for me. I respond to anything he says to me in as short of sentences as possible, giving as little information as I can.

I just want to be alone. That is why I am carrying several saddlebags and sneaking out of his home in the middle of the night.

I strap my belongings onto Shadow, my beautiful dappled mare, and swing astride the saddle.

Under the bright moonlight, I gallop away, without a destination in mind. I leave Lordaeron forever.

Although I do not find out about this immediately, the plague takes my homelands the next day.

***

I am seventeen years old.

I press a knife to the throat of a well-dressed elderly man. It was foolish of him to walk alone in this part of Stormwind, at this time of night. I make my demands.

"Your coin purse, where is it?"

He must not be completely stupid, because he cooperates. Once the gold is mine, I remove the blade from his throat and push him to the ground. Before he can get up, or even crane his neck around to see my face, I turn and sprint down the street.

I've done this a million times. By now, it goes like clockwork.

Except that this time it doesn't.

I'm almost to the corner when pain the likes of which I have never even taken the time to imagine grips me. I scream in horror, and drop to the ground.

It is a blessing when I pass out several seconds later.

I awake in an unfamiliar room. The elderly man is standing over me. I blink, unable to comprehend what is happening. He waits until it comes back to me. I try to sit up, only to find my wrists and ankles bound to bed posts. Suddenly, I'm scared. I'm really scared.

"Who are you..?" I whisper hoarsely up at him, my eyes wide with fright.

He frowns down upon me, almost as though I should already know the answer.

"I am your new master."

And then the shadows behind him _move_ and I scream.

***

I am nineteen years old.

I finish drawing the pentagram on the ground. Tossing aside the chalk unceremoniously, I rise and stand in the center of my creation.

My master watches from across the room.

I raise my hands and chant. The demonic words flow easily off of my tongue, I am more than fluent.

As the power within and around me rises, I close my eyes and reach for the void. Manipulating its tendrils, I find what I am looking for and pull it towards me.

I scream out the last word of power, and the air is rent by a dark portal. Through it, his roiling sadistic mind filling me with confidence, steps a felguard.

I smile widely, a bead of sweat rolling down my nose to fall form the tip.

My master nods in approval.

"Well done, Cheryle. Now let's see if you know how to use him."

That night I break into the home of the son of an old rival of my master's. My felguard slaughters him before he can summon the courage to scream.

I kneel by the decapitated body in confusion. I have never killed before, and somehow I thought it would be different. I thought I would be revolted, or feel a leap of sadistic pleasure: one or the other.

But I feel nothing.

The next night I kill my master in his sleep. I would have liked to drag out a slow, painful, death for him for the many acts he has committed against me over the past two years, but I do not. I cannot risk him turning the tables on me.

When the sun rises, I am still standing in his room, beside his bloodstained bed. My felguard is still standing across from me. My master's body is still beneath the sheets.

It is beginning to smell. I raise my hands and felfire ignites the bed, eating hungrily along its length. When all evidence has been incinerated, I dismiss the demon and walk into the kitchen.

I fry up two eggs, and sit down to eat them. I'm no gourmet chef, but they taste delicious.

***

Hope you enjoyed it. Reviews, good or bad, are always appreciated.


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